


Lay Your Sleeping Head, My Love

by Hana_Noiazei



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Human!Denmark, Illness, M/M, Personification!Norway, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27080998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hana_Noiazei/pseuds/Hana_Noiazei
Summary: It is a terrible thing to be in love with someone you will outlive.
Relationships: Denmark/Norway, Denmark/Norway (Hetalia)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	Lay Your Sleeping Head, My Love

**Author's Note:**

> Based on W.H. Auden's poem of the same title.

Henrik is so young.

Perhaps not to some, as they may consider fifty to be plenty old enough. Fifty years, after all, is five whole decades, one half of a century. People tend to think that that is quite a long time.

But Norway has lived for a thousand years, watched millions upon millions of humans be born and be snatched away from life, either by the hands of others or by the silent killers that are age and illness. Fifty years is a drop in the ocean to him.

Despite his age, Henrik’s beauty is timeless. It is hard to believe that he, too, is not a nation. His wild mane of golden hair is like the Netherlands’, his piercing blue eyes those of Sweden, his seemingly boundless energy resembling America’s. He seems better suited to be the personification of the Kingdom of Denmark than the current one. The day Norway saw him in Copenhagen, resplendent and radiant in the Royal Theatre, he nearly thought that Denmark himself had a makeover.

But not now. His untamed hair is splayed across the pillow, tickling Norway’s arm whenever he shifts. His sapphire eyes are glazed over with fever. He has never been so weak.

He is beautiful anyways.

Whatever illness is plaguing Henrik has no cure. It will snatch him away soon, stop his heart when he should’ve had twenty, thirty more years. Norway will lose him forever.

The two of them are curled up in Norway’s bedroom, in a tiny cottage far, far away from the city. He has taken each and every one of his lovers here at least once. On this bed, love has been made before, but today it will be lost. Henrik is clinging on to his arm, trembling with cold despite the heavy quilt over him. From the floor-to-ceiling window on the other side of the room, all is black. The only light comes from a candle, its wick holding a flame as flickering as Henrik’s life.

They have laid like this before, lazy and love-drunk in each other’s arms. This might be the last time they share a bed. 

Henrik coughs. His chest spasms. Norway holds him closer and rubs his back soothingly, lips pressed tight to the crown of his head as he shakes. “Easy now,” he murmurs, “take deep breaths.”

His breath is rattling. Henrik curls into the warmth of his chest. “Water,” he rasps. His loud, robust voice has been reduced to this.

Norway hands him a glass and holds him steady as he sips from it. “Do you need anything else?”

“No.” He smiles feebly. Even when weak, he is utterly charming. “Just need you.”

He settles back in bed, his head resting on Norway’s arm. His eyes flutter closed. His breathing slows. Norway’s mind is left to wander again.

He has never had a human die beside him - at least, not one of his lovers. They left him far before it was their time, always choosing another mortal partner over one that stayed eerily, eternally young. Henrik is the only one who was loyal - or would “foolish” be a better word? - enough to stay for thirty whole years.

Some people may speak when they see this middle-aged man holding hands with one who looks not a day over twenty. But the remarks mortals let slip are mere words to the nations’ silent scrutiny. He isn’t like France, with the lovers he wears through a year at a time, but they stare all the same. _I’m sorry,_ England’s eyes say. _What a pity,_ Finland’s sigh. They all know how a relationship with a human will end.

That is still nothing compared to the heavy, defeated acknowledgement that weighs down on Henrik when he is sad. No, no glare from the nations could hurt Norway as much as seeing Henrik reflect on the fact that yes, after he is gone from this world, not a century will pass before Norway will have forgotten him and found someone else. He is not special.

And perhaps that will be the case one day, though he can never be sure; not even a nation like him can see the future. But now, all he can focus on is Henrik, trembling beside him. 

Henrik’s eyes flutter open again. That beautiful blue gaze is dulling. Perhaps he will not last the night. But his grin is very much filled with life. Norway brushes his hair away from his clammy forehead, asking “how do you feel?”

“Tired. But I’m always tired now.”

“Does anything hurt?”

He shakes his head slightly, exhaling with a puff. Even the tiniest movements exhaust him now. “Nothing. I want a kiss, though.”

Norway obliges him, pressing his lips to Henrik’s and pretending they are just having another night together despite the air of illness and near-death that constantly lingers now. Outside the window, the sun is just beginning to rise. The day will come soon. Henrik nuzzles his neck. “Wish this could last forever,” he mumbles.

“Hmm?”

“Just you and me. In bed together. Forever and ever.” He has to stop to catch his breath. The fingers that have been clinging to Norway’s nightshirt since last evening grow weak. 

For him, it may well be eternal. He kisses Henrik again, square on the lips. To Hell if he catches whatever disease his lover has; he can survive it. _His_ mortality means nothing.

Birds are calling. Henrik groans in his half-sleeping state. 

While the night slips away, Norway takes hold of his hand, running his fingers over the thin skin of his hand that is just starting to wrinkle. If only he were not dying.

The only way to save Henrik from the inevitable grasp of death is to rid him of his humanity entirely. A couple of decades ago, during the Second World War, Norway heard tales of England refusing to let a boy he thought his son depart from him, and in a fit of desperation christened him the Principality of Sealand so that he would live.

He could do that, make Henrik the personification of Narvik, maybe, or Ålesund, or another small place so he could live forever without the stress of the rest of the personified world. But would Henrik want that?

Sealand, or Peter as he calls himself, hated England after being immortalised, after being doomed to be a child forever. He cursed England for making it so that he’d never grow up, never know how it’d feel to be an adult. What if Henrik hated him the same way?

They have never once talked about that possibility. Now that Henrik is barely clinging on to life, it might be a good time to. Norway runs his fingers through his hair, waiting for the next time he is coherent.

Once again, his eyes flutter open. The light in them is almost extinguished. 

“Does anything hurt?” Norway asks again.

“No.”

He sighs. “I wish I could magically cure you.”

“It’s all right.” Henrik’s hand grows limper, fingers barely brushing his nightshirt. “Even if I - if I die, I’ll be happy.”

“I could change you.” He can hear the desperation in his own voice. “I could let you personify a village, a small town, something like that. You could stay alive.”

“No,” Henrik whispers.

“Why not?”

“Y-You deserve better.” He coughs, curling up in a ball. “Better... than me.”

Tears, hot and shameful, blur Norway’s vision for a brief moment. “I’ll never find anyone better than you.”

The smile that Henrik gives him is feeble, fleeting. It is so unlike his smiles from when he was healthy, grins radiant enough to light up the night sky. “You will.”

He lets the tears fall. “But - “

“You make me happy.” His other hand, clutched in Norway’s, twitches. He gently traces his hand with his thumb. “I won’t be happy if - “ he coughs again - “if I change.”

He finally lets himself cry, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. Henrik’s weak hand stretches out to catch some of his teardrops. “Don’t cry,” he pleads. “Not... not over me.”

The slowly-brightening sky is almost blinding to him. He wipes his eyes, feeling a cold, hollow emptiness take over him. How idiotic he must look, crying when he is the powerful, undying one.

Henrik closes his eyes again. Norway forces himself to calm down. If only he were Belarus - harsh, hostile Belarus who despises humankind and refuses to befriend any, let alone love one. If he were like her, he would never have subjected himself to this sorrow over and over again.

He rests a hand on Henrik’s chest. His heart is beating sluggishly, so weak that Norway can hardly hear it. In a few hours, it will stop altogether.

How could he have taken those thirty years for granted? How could he have called his greatest love a fool, teased him for his many whims, when every second they spent should’ve been treasured? Are human lovers like this, too, in which they never care for the times they spend with their partners until it is all over? Or are _they_ the logical ones here? Maybe they live every loving moment to the fullest.

As Henrik lies quivering beside him, Norway thinks of lovers from the times before - Hans and Harald, Oscar and Alfred, Gilbert and Gordon. How easy their love was, in comparison to his! How easy it is to be a man who can only love other men, compared to an immortal cursed to love a human. Better die together than to outlive one’s many loves. Yes, humans with their mayfly years have it easy.

“Nor?” Henrik is awake again, despite having closed his eyes no more than fifteen minutes ago.

“Yes, dear?”

“You should sleep.”

“No, no.” Norway bends down to press a kiss to his cheek, breathing in his scent beneath the stench of illness. “I have to take care of you.”

He shifts slightly, laying his head in the crook of his elbow. His fingers entwine with Norway’s. “You have work.” Henrik gasps, choking on his own breath. Once he can breathe again, he continues, “so you need rest. And I want to cuddle you.” He tries to wink.

He has never been able to deny Henrik anything for long. He slides so that he’s lying down next to his lover and bundles him to his chest. It has always been the other way around, with Henrik squeezing him tight with steady arms. But he will have to be the strong one tonight.

What did Henrik ever see in him? He does not have Italy’s charisma nor China’s beauty, nor Switzerland’s riches. He is a wisp of a man, awkward at best. He never thought he would attract humans.

But he did. And the latest one, about to be stolen away like all the others, is in his arms. Norway kisses his forehead, hums a song they both know and love. Henrik laughs, a pained wheezing sound that sounds like he’s choking. He might be. 

The sun is about to breach the horizon. Henrik’s heart, pumping laboriously against his arm, will not last much longer. His breaths have grown shallower, too. He will die before the day comes. 

Fighting back tears, he kisses him again. The blanket settles warm and heavy over them. The mattress is soft. Aflame with fever, Henrik is almost too warm in his embrace. His head is buried in Norway’s shoulder; their fingers are still laced together. “Good morning and goodnight, Nor,” he mumbles.

For Henrik’s sake, he forces himself to smile. “Good morning and goodnight, Henrik.”

“I love you.”

_I adore you,_ Norway wants to say. _I worship you, I would die for you, I would do anything to see you in good health once more. I live for you and you only. I love you even if I will forget you one day._

But pretty words are worthless now. He kisses Henrik a third, final time, right on his chapped lips, and whispers, “I love you too.”

He closes his eyes, afraid to open them again, for he knows what he will see.

When Norway awakens, it is noon. The sun is high in the sky, blessing all the world with its warm golden light. 

Henrik is still snuggled into his shoulder. The fingers lacing his are cold and lifeless.

Norway sits up, slowly easing Henrik down onto the pillows. He brushes his blond locks aside to take a look at him. 

Henrik’s eyes are closed. He is smiling softly. He looks so young.

**Author's Note:**

> The lovers Norway was referring to were Hans Christian Andersen and Harald Scharff, Oscar Wilde and Alfred Douglas, and two soldiers in WWII named Gilbert and Gordon, whose surnames are unknown.


End file.
